


Venery

by Omorka



Category: Eureka
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2009-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omorka/pseuds/Omorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taggart's telling stories, and Fargo's his best audience member.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Venery

**Author's Note:**

> A tag for Episode 3.17, "Have An Ice Day."

Taggart's return was making Fargo feel unsettled. Not in an entirely negative way, though; it was more that the set of chaotic attractors that Fargo's life and luck spun around had just gotten a little more chaotic. He didn't think his life was going to destabilize because of it; it just made things even less predictable than they were already.

Not that he really wanted more unpredictability, either. But some pleasant things had happened to him lately that he never would have seen coming - Julia, and to a much lesser extent Duncan. Of course, Duncan hadn't stayed, and Julia might still be redacted, but having a new crush who returned his feelings (really, had been the instigator) for once, and a new father-figure, however briefly, really did improve his year.

At any rate, Taggart was deep in storyteller mode, and despite not really being all that into zoology, Fargo was fascinated. Fargo's relationship with his subconscious was a precarious thing; it was always a toss-up who was in charge, and his subconscious had a terrible tendency to _believe_ in things. It was a dangerous trait in a scientist. Taggart, on the other hand, seemed to have that balance well in hand; he _accepted_ myths, legends, and out-and-out superstition without ever having any _faith_ in them. They were true for him in some larger sense that included the possibility that they _might_ be literally factual, but never insisted on it. The phoenix always rose, whether there was any smoke or not.

One of the high-school kids had his hand up, and Taggart nodded at him. "Is it true that you saw the White Caribou?" the boy asked, to a handful of snickers behind him. He glared at the friend who had dared him.

The cryptozoologist favored the young teen with a grizzled, vaguely predatory smile. "Well, we were on Russian soil; over there, they're called reindeer." He took a swig from his Vinspresso. "I did get to track and examine an albino specimen; they're rare, but not so unusual that a man might go a lifetime and never see one." He leaned back and took a deep breath, and something gleamed in his eyes. "But I think what you're asking about is the Questing Beast sung of in Inuit legends, under the midnight sun."

Taggart gestured broadly, the heavy fur flaring and ruffling behind his arm. "There are Questing Beasts in many cultures, and they mean something a little different in each one. In Europe, they were deer, usually, and like the caribou you mentioned, they were pure white, like moonlight. And they're damned hard to catch; if it's a stag, it could take years of careful pursuit - and a doe, well, there you're right out of luck. A young noble might catch a glimpse of one on a summer's night, and spend his entire life in the chase." He took another swallow of his coffee, his eyes focused somewhere outside the cafe. "Some said it was a curse, that once you saw one, you couldn't ever give up the pursuit."

There was a long pause. Fargo tried not to blurt it out. "But that's not what you think, is it?"

Taggart grinned. "No, you're right, Fargo, I don't. Never have." He tugged off his bear-fur mittens and ran a hand across his scalp. "I think, that for some of us - not everyone, sure, but a few - it's the quest that's important." His eyes settled on a figure at the back of the crowd. Fargo didn't need to turn around to know it was Jo; he could tell by the way the edges of Taggart's face softened. "There's something inherently noble about the pursuit itself, and the Beast may be better as a mystery. Once caught, what do you do with her? 'Twould be a shame indeed to cage her and keep her - she's meant to run wild." His eyes flicked to the side; Fargo wondered what Zane was seeing in them, but he refused to turn and look. "If you can catch her and let her go again, you're a better man than I."

After another round of stories of snowstorms and strange tracks on the arctic ice, Vince began shooing them gently out. Taggart set one broad hand gently on Fargo's shoulder. "You all right, mate? I know you quested for her on occasion, yourself."

"I -" Fargo paused. "She shot me in the heart, and I'll never be the same." He hunted for the right words. "But I was someone else's white stag, even if it's only been for a few weeks, and - I think I like being hunted better than doing the hunting, you know?"

Taggart gave him a sidelong look. For a moment Fargo wondered if that had sounded like a come-on, and was about to protest that he hadn't meant it that way, but Taggart just laughed, and thumped him on the shoulder in a much more rough-and-tumble sort of way. Fargo laughed back, and tried to ignore the bruise he'd just gotten.

As they headed for the door, Jo stepped away from the counter and turned to face them. "Hey, guys. Um, Tag, I just - we realized that there was still someone else you didn't say good-bye to properly, and you haven't had a chance to say hello to yet."

"Oh?" The hunter sounded surprised. "And just who might that be?"

Jo stepped outside, and Taggart followed her. A furry mound of grey bounced from the alley where Vince dumped his scraps, barked twice, and bounded up to Taggart, tail wagging madly.

"Lojack, you old son a of a bitch!" Taggart laughed. "You still mad enough to stick around here?" The dog barked again and licked his hand. "Well, you clever bastard, just you wait - I'll catch you yet. The quest is back on, my best of enemies!" His eyes gleamed madly, and his grin was wild and crooked. Lojack skipped backwards, howled at the white moon, and galloped off into the night.


End file.
